Chapter 10 Rhett #2
Back at her bed, I open the containers and spoon out a bowl. The steam rises, thick with garlic and beef. I sit on the edge of the mattress, balancing the bowl in one hand.
“Eat,” I say.
She turns her head away.
Gripping her chin, I force her to face me. “Eat. Or I’ll feed it to you myself.”
She sneers, but the effort exhausts her. She opens her mouth and lets me spoon in the broth. The first taste makes her gag, but she swallows, and I keep going.
We get through half the bowl before she collapses back, eyes rolling up. I set it down and wipe her mouth with a napkin. Her lips are chapped, split in the center. I want to kiss her, but I don’t.
The next time, she will be in control.
Instead, I sit on the floor beside the bed, back against the wall, and close my eyes.
I listen to the rattle of her breath and count the seconds between each one.
I spend the day doing that, easing into night, alternating between letting her sleep and force feeding her.
At three AM, her fever breaks. I feel the difference before I see it—her skin cools, her breath steadies, the wild nonsense of her dreams turns into ordinary sleep. I take the towel and wipe her down again, the scent of sweat replaced by something sweeter, almost floral.
I watch her chest rise and fall, the tattoo at her hip just visible above the hem of her shorts. I stare at it until the image burns into my brain.
A tiny bird.
This is what it means to own something, I think. Not to destroy it, but to be responsible for it. To know every flaw, every break, every raw edge and still want to keep it. I empty her puke bucket, wash it and put it back beside the bed.
I stay awake until morning.
When she wakes, she’s lucid but hollowed out, the fever gone but leaving nothing in its place.
She looks at me, blank and tired. “You’re still here.”
“Yep.”
She sits up, rubs her eyes, and looks around the room. “You didn’t take anything?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
She groans and falls back against the pillow. “I feel like shit.”
“You look worse,” I say, and she almost smiles.
I pour her another glass of water and set it next to the bed.
She sits up and drinks, hands shaking.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, her brow so high up on her forehead, it almost disappears
“Because no one else will,” I say.
She stares at me, like she’s trying to see through me. “You’re a monster.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m your monster now.”
She closes her eyes and lets the words sink in before passing out, her snoring slow and gentle.
The rest of night is endless and every hour tastes like penance.
I don’t sleep, even after Isolde’s breathing goes quiet and regular. I stand watch over her like I’m expecting her to vanish at any moment, as if the next time I blink she’ll be a chalk outline in the shape of a regret.
The room gets cold. I find her extra blanket in the closet and lay it over her, tucking the edges in around her. I set her phone to vibrate and place it within arm’s reach of her.
By seven, she’s opening her eyes, rolling over and staring at me.
“You must really like the stink of vomit, Grey.”
“Guilty.”
She smiles, barely, and the fever has burned the fight out of her. “Most guys would have left.”
“I’m not most guys,” I say.
She rolls her head toward me, the hair fanned out across the pillow in sweaty clumps. “Is this what you did for her?”
“No.”
She nods, hesitates and then inhales.
“Did you love her?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I reach out and brush her hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on the skin just long enough to feel her pulse.
She doesn’t pull away.
The silence sits. Not uncomfortable, but not comfortable either.
After a minute, she gets up and heads to the bathroom. Standing, I’m ready, just in case she needs me. As she passes, she rolls her eyes. I memorize the shape of her mouth, the small scar on her left eyebrow, the tiny notch in her earlobe where someone once tried to pierce it and failed.
Her question trigger memories I’d rather not remember. Casey, not as she was in the end, but as she looked the first time I cornered her in this very building. The same stubborn tilt to the jaw, the same eyes daring you to do your worst.
I hum the nursery rhyme, soft and slow, and for a moment the room feels haunted.
Is this what she heard in her final moments?
The question hangs in the darkness, unanswered.
My thought is interrupted by the flush of a toilet and Isolde slowly making her way back to bed.
“Guess I’ll be all better for tomorrow and the Hunt.”
“Guess so.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“Not on things that matter,” my lips upturn in a small smile.
She studies me for a long time, as if she’s seeing something she missed before.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, “even though you’re a dick and I hate you.”
I reach out, take her hand in mine, and hold it there.
She doesn’t pull away.
I watch her until she falls asleep again, then lean in close, mouth at her ear.
“You’re not her,” I whisper. “And I’m not letting you go.”
She doesn’t hear me, but that’s fine.
I’ll say it as many times as it takes.